The Baby Scandal(14)

"Shall we take the lift?" he asked, and she dragged her gaze away from the mural.

"There are lifts?"

"Three. One for each of the residents."

"But surely it won't take long to walk to your flat...?"

"In which case, we follow the winding road until we can't go any further."

On  the way, he explained the mural to her, pointing out some of the   well-known mythological figures and most of the more obscure ones. Her   child-like enthusiasm invigorated him in a way he would not have dreamt   imaginable. He had the empowering feeling that with this chit of a girl   at his side...he could accomplish anything. How foolish could one  grown  man get? he wondered.

As they neared the top floor Ruth felt a  sense of apprehension begin to  creep over the light-hearted frivolity  that had taken them over.

The same plush cream carpet had  followed them up the elegant curved  staircase, but as soon as he opened  the door to his apartment she was  confronted with a dose of unbridled  masculinity.

Gleaming wooden flooring replaced the thick-piled  carpet. As she  followed him inside she noticed, in passing, that most of  the furniture  was solid and exquisitely made but unabashedly modem.  Sleek lines,  unfettered designs and an absence of anything that was  fussy.

"The country house is so full of antiques," he said,  reading her mind  again, "that I decided to go for a totally  twentieth-century look. What  do you think?"

Ruth paused to glance  into the sitting room, where the colors were pale  off-whites, creams,  with hints of deeper hues in the lush carpets  strewn liberally across  the floor.

"It's fabulous." She looked around her and blurted  out, a little  sheepishly. "I never knew a Victorian house could look  this...this  modem. The vicarage is Victorian, but..." she smiled fondly  at the  thought.

"...absolutely cluttered. Dad's hopeless when it  comes to sticking  things in drawers, and Mum's almost as bad. This  apartment looks as  though no one lives in it from one day to the next."

She gave him a brief, questioning look, and he mildly acknowledged that, once again, his privacy had somehow been infringed.


"I  travel a lot," he found himself saying. "In fact, as I've mentioned  to  you previously, I'm out of the country more than I'm in it. And,  when I  am here, I tend to socialize out of the house..."

"Why is that?" She took a few curious steps into the sitting room and looked around her.

"What? Why is what?"

"Why  is it that you don't socialize here, when it's obviously huge  enough to  entertain any number of people? I mean..." She opened her  mouth to say  something, then promptly shut it again.

"Carry on, carry on," he told her irritably.

"Nothing. Where have you got your first aid box?"

She glanced at her watch, which instantly made him scowl.

"What were you going to say?" he demanded, barring her exit from the room.

"I  just wondered whether you never brought anyone back here. There seem  to  be no feminine touches at all...no flowers in vases or soft   cushions..." She looked up at him with interest.

"Flowers in  vases? Soft cushions? I don't think I've ever dated a woman  who was  interested in flower arranging or cushion color coordination."

"Of  course not," Ruth said quietly, regretting the directness of her   question. She could tell from the expression on his face that he was   rapidly becoming fed up with her.

"Anyway, I don't care for the thought of, some woman spending too much time in my apartment.                       
       
           



       

Naturally  I...entertain them here...but I always make it perfectly  clear that  traipsing in with little jars of female unguents won't do.  That's only  one short step away from them attempting to make their mark  on what they  see, which is one even shorter step away from them  attempting to do the  same to me."

It occurred to Ruth that he had had no problem  letting her in,  listening to her remarks about the decor, and was  suddenly deflated to  realize why. Because he was so uninterested in her  as a woman that  whether she nosed around his place and proffered her  opinion or not was  of no concern to him.

"If we could sort your  hand out?" she said a little coolly. "It's late,  and I really must be on  my way home. I'm whacked?" She yawed in a  convincing attempt to provide  further evidence of her exhaustion, and  in fact, when she had consulted  her watch, it was a great deal later  than she had imagined.

"In  the bathroom," he said, watching her. He turned away abruptly and  headed  past a couple more rooms, all equally clinically beautiful as  the  first, and flung open the door to his bedroom, upon which Ruth  halted in  her tracks.

"This is your bedroom," she stated flatly. There could be no mistaking it.

It  was dominated by a commanding king-sized bed with an imperious   wrought-iron bedhead. The wardrobes were sleekly wooden, and obviously   designed and made by the same person who had been responsible for much   of the furniture, but there were black iron details picked out in their   detail that rendered the final appearance harshly masculine. A tapestry   depicting a hunting scene hung over the bed, its rich colors bringing   life to the aggressive monochrome scheme.

The throw on the bed  was black, with ivory lines in abstract patterns,  and the pillowcases on  the pillows were quite clearly silk, or  satin-one black one ivory  colored.

It was a room that breathed heavy sensuality. A room  that instantly  brought on an attack of nerves as Ruth peered around her  with alarm.

"Come in, come in," he commanded walking towards a  door that was old  wood halfway up and intricate stained glass for the  remainder. "Don't  just stand hovering by the door!"

Ruth  cautiously entered the den of iniquity, treading with the delicate   hesitancy of someone crossing a minefield. She would get this   hand-fixing business over in rapid time and clear out before her nerves   got the better of her and induced some horrendously embarrassing   Victorian swooning fit.


"Sit on the bed," he called out, halting her in mid-step.

"More comfortable there. I'll bring all the stuff out."

"It's just a bruise!" Ruth joked weakly to the stained glass. "No need for that handy vial of anaesthetic!"

He  poked his head around the door and shot her a wicked grin. "I'll  just  put it back, then, shall I?" He disappeared once more for a few  seconds,  then emerged with an assortment of things in both hands.

"This  is the first aid kit?" Ruth inquired dubiously, shifting back to   accommodate the sudden depression in the mattress as he sat down next  to  her.

She removed her jacket and then examined the sum total of  his bathroom  cabinet. Some cotton wool, some antiseptic liquid that  appeared to have  firmed a strange, off-putting color, several assorted  plasters, none  of which were much good for anything but a minute nick,  and,  mysteriously, some talcum powder.

"I never said it was comprehensive."

"Well,  it'll have to do." She took his hand and felt a flutter of  awareness as  she rested it on her leg, splayed out so that she could  examine the  bruises, three in all. "It's really not bad at all, is it?"  she mused  head down-turned.

For a few seconds Franco was caught between  boasting about the fact  that the man's face would be looking a damn  sight worse than his hand  was and assuming the air of a wounded martyr,  appealing to the fair  maiden for Sympathy. He opted for the macho image  and said smugly. "Not  bad considering I probably put the bastard out of  action for a few  days."

"You men always think you're so clever,  sorting things out with a  fight." She raised her eyes to his and smiled.  "I'm teasing. Actually,  you were very gallant. Thank you." She returned  to what she was doing  and he felt a wash of unparalleled warmth rush  through his body like a  tidal wave.

With a mixture of amusement  and horror he realised that his body was  reacting in its own inimitable  fashion, pushing against his trousers,  and he shifted his body, crossing  his legs awkwardly.

While she worked away on his hand he  watched, and gave free rein to a  tingling array of erotic fantasies  because, with his erection hard and  throbbing, thinking chaste thoughts  seemed fairly pointless.